A New Approach
by Stilghar
Summary: A Starfleet Academy cadet comes up with a novel response to the Kobayashi Maru test. (Takes place anywhere between The Wrath of Khan and Undiscovered Country.)


"I _can't_ possibly have heard that right," Midshipman Kevin Hirosaki stammered, staring at his grinning roommate. "You're actually _looking forward_ to the test?"

Midshipman Mark Wolf, like the man gaping at him across the dormitory's small table, was in his final form of training in Starfleet Academy, and had been selected as the ship's Captain for his class's turn at the Academy's infamous Kobayashi Maru training scenario. The slightly older man grinned impishly, leaning back in his chair. "Trust me. I've been thinking about this for years." He shrugged. "I just wonder if the sim's programmers ever considered my reaction to the scenario."

Hirosaki sighed ruefully. "I hope you're not contemplating the Kirk Method."

"No," Wolf shook his head. "My programming skills are atrocious, at best; remember, I'm the one who managed to write a 'Hello World' script that looped on itself so many times it brought down the entire Academy network."

"Then how the hell do you hope to get out of the sim with your ass - not to mention your ship - intact?"

Wolf grinned. "My mother was a xenopsychologist with the Diplomatic Corps. She studied the Klingons for years; she probably knows them better than anyone else in the Federation." He sat up and gave his friend and bunkmate a friendly swat on the shoulder. "Trust me."

The bridge of the Excalibur was quiet, with only the soft noises of the ship's operations and the routine chatter of the bridge crew to break the silence of the void. Captain Mark Wolf occupied the center seat, perusing information regarding Klingon fleet movements near the Neutral Zone on a datapad, when an urgent chime erupted from the Communications section, and the officer manning the console stiffened abruptly.

"Captain," Ensign Ugabe spoke urgently, his dark face paling a bit, but his demeanor still calm and professional. "We've picked up a distress call from inside the Neutral Zone. A Class-III fuel hauler has run across an old gravitonic mine and is now dead in space. She's on canned life support and fading fast. The signal's automated; their communications may be wrecked..."

"Or there may be nobody left to use it," the young Captain finished grimly. "What's the crew compliment of a Class III freighter?"

"About four hundred souls, counting passengers," Ensign Hirosaki replied quickly from Tactical. "She has minimal shields and just enough hull to withstand warp stress. If she's hit a grav mine, she's hurt bad." Wolf nodded. "Helm, plot us an intercept, maximum Warp."

Commander Shi'iel, a stocky, no-nonsense female Andorian, spoke rather more sternly to her Captain than Starfleet protocol typically cared for. "Sir, if we take this ship into the Neutral Zone, we will stand in violation of treaty."

Wolf nodded solemnly. "We're out here to save lives, Commander. Even at the risk of o

ur own." He looked up at his Science Officer. "T'vanne, keep your eyes on the long range scanners. If anything so much as twitches in our general direction, scream." The Vulcan peering into the sensor scope looked up as if to question the logic of screaming aloud across the bridge, but caught her Captain's expression and realized that the human was, once again, speaking figuratively. "Aye, Sir," came the clipped reply.

"Helm, implement course change." Wolf knew, intellectually, that he wasn't really aboard a starship in deep space, but could still have sworn he felt a change in the deck plating beneath him as the ersatz Excelsior-class cruiser swung about and plunged headlong into the simulated void.

It didn't take long for the reaction that all the bridge crew - with the possible exclusion of T'vanne - feared to occur. "Captain," the Vulcan announced, "I have Klingon vessels on long-range scanners."

"How many, what are they and what are they doing?"

"I read three...no, six...eleven..." the normally cool-as-vacuum Vulcan composure cracked for a brief instant. "Sir, I am reading no less than fifteen K'Tinga-class battlecruisers on an intercept vector."

Wolf sat upright in his command chair. "Look for something bigger; maybe a C-8 or Koloth-class Dreadnought. It'll be near the forward arc of the leading group, but he may be cloaked. This isn't an ordinary formation; they're here for something special. Maybe us.." He turned toward the helm console. "Helm, maximum decel. Bring us to a full stop right at the edge of the Neutral Zone."

Shi'iel gazed levelly at her 'Captain'. "I know your mother studied Klingon psychology," she murmured, "but you seem quite familiar with their tactics."

"With Klingons, it's pretty much one and the same," Wolf replied. "Talk to me, T'vanne."

"Sir," the Vulcan responded a bit tensely, "the Klingons are coming out of Warp and closing to weapons range."

"Mister Ugabe, open hailing frequencies. Mister Hirosaki, shields to standby and weapons hot."

"Aye, sir. Guns hot."

"Hailing frequencies open, Captain."

Mark Wolf stood, tugging on the hem of his burgundy tunic, and faced the communications pickups embedded in the viewscreen. "This is Captain Mark Wolf, U.S.S. Excalibur, commanding." He took a deep breath, and nearly growled at the array of warships closing on his command. "Is this the vaunted heroism and courage of the warriors of Q'onos? Is a single Federation starship of so great a threat to the Empire that you send fifteen...no, _sixteen_ warships to confront him?" His bridge crew stared at him as if he'd gone mad, but Captain Wolf carried on. "If this is all the bravery the Heirs of Khaless can summon, then I weep for the Empire." Wolf made a chopping motion at his throat, and a distinctive beep emanated from the Communications console.

"Hailing frequencies closed, Sir."

"Sir," Ensign Hirosaki reported, "Klingon Dreadnought decloaking, dead ahead. She's bigger than a Koloth; she may be a new design."

"Sir," interjected Ugabe, "the dreadnought is hailing."

"On screen."

The viewscreen at the forward edge of the bridge abruptly changed from a tactical view of the Excalibur's dreadfully unenviable circumstances to a window into a red-lit and steamy Klingon bridge, centered on a decorated warrior in the center seat, snarling at the pickups. "You are bold, Human," the grizzled officer spoke, "or you are insane. In any case, you are in violaton and will be destroyed."

"Check your astrography," Wolf replied, gazing closely at the officer's emblems of rank, "Admiral. We are at least three million Kellicams outside the border, and we are acting in response to a distress call we received from a freighter that has come into grief and requires assistance. The signal is broadcast on a three-terahertz band; it's not a channel the Imperial Navy typically monitors."

The Klingon officer snarled at someone offscreen, and there was a growled response in the Klingon Battle Language. "It seems you are correct, Captain," the Admiral admitted. "There is indeed a signal, and our long-range probes indicate a severely damaged vessel at the location."

"Despite what you may have heard about my people, Admiral," Wolf said boldly, "I make it a point not to lie. Lies are too easily found out."

"Even so, I cannot allow you to casually violate our borders."

"And I will not let you destroy my ship without a fight."

"Then we are at an impasse." The old Klingon turned as if to speak to another out-of-view officer, when Captain Wolf interrupted. "Wait. I have a proposal."

The Klingon paused, returning his gaze to the monitor. "Speak."

"My ship will duel with one of your battle group, Admiral." There were several sharp inhalations from various points of the bridge. "If my vessel is victorious and able to continue, we will proceed into the Neutral Zone and rescue the freighter. Your ships will withdraw outside of weapons range and observe."

The Klingon Admiral looked startled by the proposal. "Go on."

"If my ship is victorious, but disabled," Wolf continued, "your ships will recover any survivors and rescue the crew of the freighter. We will be delivered to the nearest Federation outpost under a flag of truce. I give my word of honor that your ships will not be fired on if they do not attack."

"And if you fail your trial, Captain?" the Klingon growled.

"Then the survivors of the freighter, and this ship, will be yours to do with as you see fit."

"You risk much."

"To stand by and do nothing while others are in danger would be a blight on my honor and the honor of Starfleet," Wolf said calmly, "and would prove me unworthy of a starship command."

"Very well. I accept your terms."

"One other term I forgot to mention, Admiral."

The Klingon glared at him. "What is it?" "The vessel from your fleet that fights mine will not be your Dreadnought."

The Admiral glared levelly at his screen for a time, then leaned back and laughed. "You are shrewd as well as bold, Captain," he said. "Very well." He turned and addressed a Klingon outside the camera's range, but spoke in English. "Signal Commander Kulag of the War Sword; his vessel will duel with this brave Human. Have all other ships hold position." The Admiral returned his gaze to the man on his monitor. "May you die well, Captain Wolf."

"And you, Admiral..."

The Klingon grinned. "Your boldness has earned you my name. I am Fleet Admiral Kordoch."

The screen blanked briefly, and returned to the tactical display. "Red Alert!" barked Captain Wolf. "Helm, evasion pattern Lambda-six-nine, maximum impulse..."

The Commander's office was cool and bright, a far cry from the hot, swirling, screaming chaos of the simulators. Commander Shi'iel stood behind her desk as the cadets entered, the bridge crew of the simulated Excalibur lining up before her desk looking only slightly the worse for wear. "Midshipman Wolf, stand to attention."

The young human obeyed, head locked forward and spine ramrod straight.

"For your conduct in the Kobayashi Maru scenario, Stardate 2241.095, you are hereby awarded a Silver Academy Commendation. Your level-headedness in the face of overwhelming odds, combined with your utilization of your own unique knowledge and the skills of your 'crew' reflects great credit upon yourself, your classmates, and the Academy." She extended a hand, and Wolf shook it formally. "Congratulations, Midshipman Wolf. Starfleet will expect great things from you."


End file.
